Paralian
by livewiresandwildfires
Summary: A month and a half. That is how long it takes for the world to go from being saved, to imminent danger. That is how long Alex stands with his toes in the sand, waiting to be needed. Hoping he won't be needed.


**Warnings:** N/A

**Rated: **T

**Summary: **A month and a half. That is how long it takes for the world to go from being saved, to imminent danger. That is how long Alex stands with his toes in the sand, waiting to be needed. Hoping he won't be needed.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

* * *

Eyes shut against the glaring sun, he can feel it. Can feel it in the waves and the breeze and the pull of gravity and the turn of the earth. The tug of the tide, in his gut, making him sway in time with the incoming waves. As though the force of the moon was focused right here. Right on this beach.

The moon and sun, keeping an eye on him. His own guardian angels that move the sea and scorch the earth, just for him. Scorch his skin and leave dark lines behind. Poke at the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose, making them stand out. Him and the sun and the sky and the stars and the moon. All alone on a deserted island on a deserted planet.

Or maybe Alex had finally cracked. He would not be surprised. It was just him, alone with the moon and sun, neither of whom were scintillating company. Though better company than Alex himself.

He enjoys standing here, on the edge of the surf. Focusing on something as simple, as universal, as predictable as the tide. It grounds him. He counts the waves. Counts until the tide turns or the sunsets.

It is like counting sheep. If he does it enough times, he can go to sleep. If he does it enough times, maybe the nightmares won't be waiting when he does. He could just dream of the ocean, the waves crashing again and again in a constant loop of destruction. Alex can relate.

Or, alternatively, he would count and count until the numbers ran out and his feet cemented themselves in the sand. The sea would wash him away, and wash him ashore, and Alex wouldn't have to worry anymore.

The beach slowly ebbs. Eroding with every assault of waves. An unnoticeable yet significant change. One grain of sand at a time until the beach will no longer be recognizable.

Again, Alex can relate. Taken apart piece by piece. He doesn't even recognize himself anymore.

The icy seawater soaks his jeans as Alex sinks to his knees. He is _so_ tired. He sits in the sand, waves lapping his waist, running the fine grains between the pads of his fingers. The pungent salt smell filling his nose. Drops speckle on Alex's lips, and he darts a tongue out, screwing his face up at the reminder of how potent seawater tastes.

The sky is clear - that odd part of the day at dusk when the sun still winks on the horizon, but the moon has joined as well, faint but visible. Celestial specks of distant stars begin twinkling in the sky. Dots like laser pointers, reaching Alex's eyes from millions of miles away. Alive or dead or dying.

Another speck sits in the sky. This one glows red, ominous. It moves steadily, refusing to stay stationary like all the other lights up above.

For a moment, Alex dismisses it as a satellite. They are out there, he knows, watching him, as committed as the sun and moon themselves - but with far more nefarious designs. But with every blink of his eyes, it grows closer. Alex is quite certain that satellites don't make a habit of falling to earth.

The monotone crash of the waves is drowned out by the drone of helicopter blades.

Alex stands, still in the surf, jeans dripping seawater. He shields his eyes from the setting sun, squinting at the approaching aircraft. The blades whiz so fast he can't even see them.

Down and down the helicopter goes, slowly descending. It flies overhead, so close that it blew Alex's hair askew and nearly knocked him off his feet. The only reason he stays upright is the damp sand he has sunk to his ankles in.

The blades slow to the speed of a ceiling fan as the helicopter makes its landing. The rudders burry in the beach. With the flick of a switch, the noisy machine that disrupted the island's natural serenity dies: and everything is as quiet as before.

Alex walks forward, knowing already what this is. MI6 have been surprisingly complacent, letting him run off without a word to the end of the world. But now, their patience must have run thin.

They have been watching, Alex is aware. Whenever a satellite blinks in the sky, or a boat rides by on the horizon, Alex knows someone was checking up on him. Keeping an eye on him.

Alex didn't mind, so long as they kept their distance. He had disappeared into the treeline anytime someone got close enough to take a shot.

For a while, MI6 had respected his wishes. That had been astonishing enough, in Alex's opinion. One day Alex had just up and left - packed a bag and disappeared without so much as a word. When he had finally settled, Alex had been on edge, expecting agents to swarm his tranquil little island. But they had not.

Maybe they had recognized the torment he has been feeling, and had decided that he deserved the chance to work it out. More likely, they thought he was being childish, and had decided to indulge his self imposed timeout. For the time being, apparently.

A month and a half. That's how long it takes for the world to go from being saved, to imminent danger. At least this time around.

Alex walks up the beach, dry sand sticking to the soles of his feet. The black helicopter ahead of him is stark against the blue and green and brown background. The man-made shade juxtaposed against the natural tones. Alex does not think he has even seen the colour black since stepping foot on his island.

His island, that he likely won't see again. MI6 will find a way to leash him up again, chain him down. But it's fine, really, Alex was expecting it. Maybe he even wants it, just a bit.

It is awfully boring here, with just the sun and the moon and the tide.

* * *

Twenty four days. Just over three weeks. Give or take, adjust for the time change. That is how long it takes for the world to go from imminent danger, to saved. At least, that is how long it takes for Alex to save the world this time around - and it is not even his record.

He has not spoken a word since sitting in his customary chair across the dark wood desk. Even though, technically speaking, a debrief should involve talking. Alex is just far too tired, and far too used to the company of outer space that doesn't require the spoken word.

She is speaking, something about a safe place, but Alex barely hears. His ears are full of seawater and the sound of crashing waves. He stands up, and by the look on her face he has just interrupted a sentence, but he can't bring himself to care.

Back turned, halfway out the door, he sends a text. His phone was at full charge, a stark difference from lying dead and drained the way it had for a month and a half. He found, oddly, the written word nearly as difficult to form as the spoken one.

The text is simple, and the same one he had sent before. _I need to get away._

The reply is the same, comforting and instantaneous.

_I know just the place._

Alex sits on the roof for God knows how long. He has said goodnight to the sun and good morning to the moon - but the stars have hidden themselves in the glare of city lights.

Which makes the blinking red all the more obvious. The helicopter hovers by the edge of the roof - Alex wonders what MI6 is thinking just now. Then he decides he doesn't care.

The wind almost blows him away, but he is used to gale forces by now. He jumps the few feet between himself and the open hatch, sneakers skidding an inch on impact.

"Ready?"

Alex nods, settling down as they rise up into the sky. The stars finally decide to come out and play, as they ascend over the grey and white mist. Pedestrians become dots and cars become specks and lights become one blur intertwining with another, then everything becomes a thick, impenetrable blanket far below.

The sun that had not long ago kissed the horizon and dropped below rises again ahead of them. Chasing the sun, Alex fixates on the sky ahead. His eyes burn, and vaguely he realizes his companion has donned specialized sunglasses.

He worries for a moment that his eyesight has begun to detriment when all he sees is white. He blinks, carelessly letting tears trace his cheeks. A memory surfaces of the first sight of his island. White, white sand in a ring around green, surrounded utterly by blue.

But this was not white, white sand. No, that wouldn't explain the white flecks in the air or the sudden chill Alex feels just by looking at it.

Snow. Ice. And then, at the edge of it all, cutting a jagged line, the sea. A different sea than what he had been used to - cold currents instead of warm tides. Alex won't be dipping his feet into this surf, unless he wants black toes and chattering teeth.

They land, whipping snowflakes into a storm around them. Like a snow globe, shaken to the core.

Alex steps out, belatedly realizing he is not appropriately dressed. His sneakers find it impossible to grip the ice, the wind rips through his thin jacket like it isn't an obstacle at all. His face goes pink and his hands go white and his teeth chatter of their own accord.

A thick, heavy blanket is draped around his shivering shoulders. Arms, reasonably clad in the sleeves of a silver winter jacket, holds him tight and propelled him forward.

Ahead of them, the target of their bee-line, stands a hut painted white. Nearly indistinguishable from the colour-drained surroundings. Alex is surprised to find the inside already warm and toasty, and promising to become even more so as his companion starts a fire in the fireplace. Weeks worth of split wood sits in a bin close by. The flint and steel old fashioned, but the familiar striking sound makes Alex feel at home.

"I have to go," his companion says, and this doesn't come as a surprise. Alex is used to being alone. His friend can never stay long, MI6 would never stand for that.

Bad enough Alex called upon outside help for his escape.

Alex nods and smiles, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders so he can receive a warm hug.

The door closes, and the sound of helicopter blades is familiar by now. Alex doesn't worry, and he doesn't feel lonely. He knows they will be watching, MI6 and his friend and God knows who else. They would call when they need him, and he could call when he needs them.

Until then he will make do with the sun, dim as it was, the moon, covered in silver clouds, and the stars that don't blink but hold steadfast above the snow.

For now he will bundle up, and go greet this new sea of his.

* * *

**Paralian:** a person who lives near the sea


End file.
